


the stars can't weep

by sea_level



Category: Project Blue Book (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anachronistic, Gen, Kid Fic, Pastoral
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-24 09:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sea_level/pseuds/sea_level
Summary: A young locksmith and aspiring philosopher, Allen, meets younger shepherd, Michael, and they learn how to be friends.





	the stars can't weep

**Author's Note:**

> a bit of an odd idea that I had that I decided to chase
> 
> The time period is ambiguously a long time ago, set in Ireland, though I'll admit I didn't do too much research for this.

The Philosopher and the Poet

_The Philosopher_

Allen finds a nice hill to sit on. There were nice hills where he used to live, too, just as good as this one, maybe even better. Hills can't move with you, though, and from this hill he can see the entire town to the west and the grazing fields to the east, so relative worth is, in itself, a largely worthless concept in this context.

This hill also gives him a nice clear view of the night sky, and it's far enough away from town that he's left largely unbothered. The solitude, he feels, is the most important part, more so than any natural beauty that might come with it. Still, there are benefits to having access to nature that some strange, unoccupied corner in town won’t grant him.

So Allen goes out to his hill and sits there, sometimes at day, sometimes at night. Sometimes he brings his notebook A1and he writes and he thinks and he ponders until his brain hurts and the world makes a little more sense. He's got chores, sure, but for these first few weeks he also has a lot of time, and he has books and thoughts to fill in those empty spaces.

* * *

He falls asleep once. It's one of those idyllic, lazy Sundays where it's warm but not too warm. There's a slight breeze, a few clouds drifting across the sky. It's the kind of day where you're meant to fall asleep, so, naturally, that's just what he does.

It's a good sleep if light for the insecurity of being in what is technically a public place. He stays like this for a good while until a shadow falls over his face and pointedly does not leave.

There are, of course, many ways for him to determine just what it is that is creating this shadow, but the easiest and least time consuming of all of them if for him to simply open his eyes and find out.

He sits up to see a child, one younger than he is, standing in front of him with a shepherd's staff in hand. He's got a look of mild concern written on his face.

"Are you alright?" the kid asks.

"Yeah, 'm fine." Allen twists around to look behind him, away from the town and toward the pasture. He sees the sheep gathered there, a small herd recently sheared for the summer. "Why do you ask?"

The kid shrugs. "I haven't seen you 'round Coinn before and you were just lying there.

"I was just taking a nap," Allen says. There's a bit of grass on his shoulder. He dusts it off.

The kid sets the base of his staff against the ground and sits down, facing the sheep. "Strange place for a nap," he says.

"Maybe," Allen replies, and he turns around so they're both oriented in the same direction. "I didn't come here with the intent to sleep, but the weather welcomed it."

"I guess it's a nice day," the kid says and shifts a little restlessly. It's obvious he doesn't care much to talk about the weather. "So you're new, right? Passing through or here to stay?"

"Here to stay," Allen says.

"It's been a long time since anyone new moved here," the kid says. "I'm Michael."

“Allen,” Allen says. Here, he thinks, an adult might offer their hand to shake, but Michael makes no such move. Instead, he looks Allen over a bit and then turns his attention back to the sheep.

“How long’ve you been here?” Michael asks after a while.

“Two weeks,” Allen replies. It hasn’t been long yet. His parents are still settling, but once they set up the shop properly, Allen won’t have nearly as much time to spend on the hill.

Michael hums and nods. “That explains why I haven’t seen you before,” he says. “I’ve been out of town with the sheep for the past three weeks. I just got back the other day, in time for them to get sheared for the summer.”

It’s Allen’s turn to look at the kid. He really doesn’t look that old, certainly not old enough to live the nomadic life of a shepherd. “How _old_ are you?” he asks.

“About nine,” Michael says. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” Allen replies. “Aren’t you a little young for this job?”

“Am I?” Michael asks. “I’ve been doing it for a few years now.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?” Allen asks. “And lonely? Aren’t there wolves?”

“Here? Probably, but I’ve never seen any,” Michael says. “I don’t take the sheep out too far, and the owner has an agreement with someone in a neighboring town, so I hand off the sheep to him and then I come back here. My mom doesn’t want me going too far.”

“I guess if that’s the case it’s alright then,” Allen says.

There aren't too many books on the function of children, Allen's found, and the ones that do talk about them always say that it's a child's duty to support their parents and to learn about the ways of the world. None of them talk about the importance of play, yet that seems to happen anyway. Allen imagines he'll forget all about it by the time he grows up.

Michael falls silent for a while. Allen doesn’t know if he’s meant to say something, but he gets stuck on the thought long enough for Michael to find something to say.

“I don’t mind it,” he says, “the shepherding. My mom needs the money, and I kind of like being alone sometimes. There are worse things to do.”

"Yeah," Allen says, thinking back to where he used to live. Things are friendlier here. "I suppose so."

* * *

Allen doesn't know if he should expect Michael to be at the hill next time he gets a free day.  
His parents are almost done setting up the shop, which means that he's been having less and less free time.

When he steps away from the town and into the outskirts, he sees someone sitting on the hill. He's excited at the prospect of potentially seeing his new friend again, though he doesn't know why. He's always been particular about his solitude before, so it doesn't make a whole lot of sense.

"Allen, hey!" Michael says once Allen's close enough to see that it actually is him. "I met your parents."

"Really?" Allen says, sitting down on the grass beside him. The sheep are out in the field. "When was that?"

"This morning," Michael says. "I dropped by before I took the sheep out. They said you were sleeping still. Called you Josef." At this, Michael leans back a little bit on his staff and slightly lifts a questioning eyebrow.

Allen sighs. "That's my given name. Allen is my middle name."

Michael's other eyebrow raises to meet the other so that his look becomes one of surprise instead. "I thought you weren't supposed to tell people your middle name. That's so the fae can't getcha."

"That's what my parents say," Allen complains, "but I like my middle name better."

"Why?" Michael asks. "Josef's an alright name."

Allen winces. "It depends on who you talk to and where they're from."

Michael looks down at the grass, his face scrunched up in thought. He looks up after a while and says, "I don't get it."

"Sometimes people aren't nice to people from eastern Europe," Allen says, "and Josef is an eastern European name."

"Huh." Michael lifts his head slightly as if to nod. "Why would they do that?"

The true answer to that is a long story that Allen isn't sure Michael really wants to hear. "They think we're bad people," Allen summarizes.

"Are you?" Michael asks.

"I certainly don't think so," Allen says.

"I don't think so either." Michael sets his staff on the ground and leans back, propping himself up on his arms. "Your parents seemed nice, too. What do they do?"

"We're locksmiths," Allen replies.

"That's interesting," Michael says. "Do you like it?"

"It's alright," Allen says. "It's not my favorite thing to do."

"What would you do if you could do anything?" Michael asks.

"I think maybe I would be a navigator on a ship," Allen says. "Maybe a philosopher."

"Why's that?"

"I want to explore the world and understand it," Allen says, "not just live in it. What about you? What would you be?"

Michael sits forward and hums, staring out at the sheep as he takes his time coming up with an answer. "I think maybe I would be a bird."

Allen laughs. "How does that work? You can't become a bird."

"We never said it had to be realistic," Michael says. "I want to fly around and go places and never be tied down, and the birds always look so free. Can you imagine what it's like? To fly?"

"I imagine for the birds it's nothing special," Allen says.

“Come on,” Michael replies. “Have some fun.”

“But it just doesn’t make _sense_ ,” Allen complains. “Only birds can fly. Even DaVinci couldn’t figure it out.”

“Who?” Michael asks, but before Allen can answer, he continues. “You’re overthinking it. Mister Green said it’s important to have dreams, even if they’re unattainable.”

“Do you know what unattainable even means?” Allen says, turning away from the field to face Michael.

“Mister Green said it’s something you can’t have,” Michael says, “and I’ll never _actually_ be a bird, so it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“I guess,” Allen says, even though he doesn’t really get it.

Their conversation wanders from there, mostly small talk, nothing of any real meaning. Later though, in a lull, Allen says, “If I ever figure out how to fly, you’ll be the first person I tell.”

Michael looks up at him, amused. “Thanks,” he says, “but don’t get my hopes up.”

“You don’t think I can do it?” Allen asks even though he doesn’t really think he can actually do it, no matter how much he learns.

“If that DaVinci guy couldn’t do it, why would you be able to?” Michael asks.

“Doesn’t hurt to dream,” Allen says and Michael laughs.

* * *

_The Poet_

When Michael returns, Allen makes time to meet up with him the first chance he can get. He doesn't particularly care that it's night or that it's cold. It's been two months at least and Allen's missed having someone to talk to.

He bustles out of his house in a rush, trying to not make too much of a ruckus lest he wake one of their neighbors. He doesn't want his excitement to get the better of him, but it's just been _so long_.

Michael's already sitting at the top of the hill when he gets there. He has neither a light nor his shepherd's staff.

"Michael," he greets, coming up the hill to sit next to him. "I'm glad to see you made it back safe."

"I always do," Michael replies pleasantly. "Did anything happen while I was gone?"

Allen shakes his head. "Everything's stayed the same."

"Doesn't it always?" Michael says. "When you moved in, that was the only big thing to happen in a while. Sometimes a baby is born, and that's big news, but I’m the second oldest kid in town so it obviously doesn’t happen often.”

"Surely you have seasonal festivals," Allen says.

"We do, I guess," Michael says. "I miss a lot of them."

"I'm sorry."

Michael shrugs. “It’s not a big deal to me.”

“Why not?” Allen asks.

“I guess most of the time, they feel like someone else’s traditions. You miss enough of them and they stop feeling special.”

“What does feel special, then?” Allen asks. He enjoys the traditional festivities of his homeland well enough. For him, they’ve been something to look forward to in order to break up the otherwise monotonous cycle or work and sleep. He doesn’t imagine he’d find them so special if he spent most of his days doing what he’d like.

Michael shrugs. “Sometimes I’ll see something neat when I’m shepherding, and for a moment it’s just me and the sheep and whatever it is I saw. It kind of makes the world seem really big and amazing, you know?”

“What kind of things are you seeing?” Allen asks.

Michael looks out to the field thoughtfully. “All sorts of things.”

“Give me an example,” Allen says.

"Just the other day, a bit before I came back, I was looking up at the night sky when I saw the stars begin to weep, leaving streaks of light as they fell across the heavens," Michael says. He's staring up at the sky now, but the stars are still, fixed in their positions.

"Don't be silly." Allen shakes his head. "The stars can't weep. Those were meteors, burning up in the atmosphere."

"I know _that_ ," Michael says, though it's obvious on his face that he hadn't known about the meteors. "It just sounds better that way."

Allen turns away from the night sky to look at him. "You fancy yourself a poet?"

"I wouldn't say that," Michael replies.

"The rules are different if you're a poet," Allen says. "You can say whatever you want if it sounds good."

“Maybe I’ll be a poet when I grow up, then,” Michael says. He’s facing the empty field when he smiles, his eyes closing contentedly.

“I think you’ve got a better chance at being a poet than a bird,” Allen comments.

Michael snorts, breaking up the calm and turning to grin at Allen. “So what does a poet do other than say things that you think don’t make any sense.”

“You know art?” Allen asks.

“Of course I know what art is,” Michael says.

“Think of that but with words,” Allen says.

“Doesn’t doesn’t make any sense,” Michael protests.

“I think that’s the point,” Allen says.

Michael shakes his head. “No, I just think that’s not a good explanation.” He looks out to the field and then up to the stars. “Is it like songs with words but without the music?” he asks. “That’s kind of like art with words.”

“Maybe,” Allen says. “Some people say poems have to rhyme or be in a certain format, but I think you can do whatever you want as long as it’s witty or interesting.”

Michael leans back until he’s lying down on the dew-damp grass. "How'd you learn about poets anyhow?"

“I read about them,” Allen says and watches as Michael’s eyebrow’s jolt upwards in shock.

“You can read?” Michael asks, his voice disbelieving.

“Yeah,” Allen says, unsure if he should be feeling pride or self-consciousness. He’s got a little of both if he’s being completely honest.

“ _How?_ I thought only rich people and priests could read.”

“All sorts of people can read and write, like merchants,” Allen says.

“You’re not a merchant, though, are you?” Michael’s squinting at him in the dark. “How’d you learn?”

“I taught myself,” Allen says. “It was a lot of practice and a lot of asking the right people the right questions.”

“You know, most of the people in this town can’t read,” Michael says.

“My parents can’t either,” Allen replies. “When I started learning, they told me to practice by keeping records of who had purchased what."

“Did it help you learn?” Michael asks.

Allen says, “Immensely, but I hated every second of it.”

Michael laughs. “I think maybe I’d like to learn to read someday.”

“Someday?”

“Not quite yet,” Michael says. “I’ll do it when I become a poet.”

“I’ll teach you if you’d like,” Allen offers.

Michael stretches his arms out behind him and then throws them forward, following the momentum until he’s sitting upright again. “Are you a good teacher?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Allen says. “I haven’t taught anyone yet.

“Guess I’ll have to find out then, huh?”

Something warm fills Allen’s chest at the idea of being able to help someone learn something new, something of a premature mentorly pride that he knows is completely unfounded.

* * *

He doesn’t see Michael as regularly after that. His parents finish setting up the shop just a few days later, and he’s drawn in to work most days. Michael himself isn’t particularly free either. He spends most of his day at the farm, working as he normally does when he’s not out shepherding.

Life becomes strangely solitary again, almost exactly as it was before he’d met Michael. It’s strange to care about being alone, but he finds himself wanting conversation in those late hours of the night spent trying to fall asleep.

He embraces his free time the best he can, taking every free moment to go up to the hill, hoping that Michael will be there. He is, sometimes, but certainly not as often as Allen would like.

It’s odd to want, almost embarrassing, but Michael doesn’t seem to have any such qualms. When they do manage to meet up, one finding the other on the hill by happy coincidence, Michael always greets him excitedly and then they just sit down and talk and share.

Allen’s surprised that he’s been able to continually hold Michael’s attention, but the differences in their ages don’t impact their relationship as much as Allen had suspected it might.

“It’s a double-edged sword, I suppose,” Allen says. They’ve both found an hour in the midday to meet. Michael will head out to fetch the sheep and bring them back, so they won’t have to chance to see each other in a while. “To have brings joy. To want brings pain.”

“You’re speaking all weird and nonsensical again,” Michael says. “Have what? Want what?”

“Friendship, I suppose,” Allen says. “Camaraderie.”

“Oh,” Michael says thoughtfully. “You mean like _our_ friendship.”

Allen ducks his head and fights the blush that threatens to rise on his cheeks at having been found out so quickly. “Or in general,” he denies uselessly.

Michael smiles knowingly but has the good grace to not heckle him. “So what are you talking about then?”

“You don’t want to talk to people until you get to talk to people and then you start to want to talk to people,” Allen says, “and sometimes you don’t even realize it until you can’t talk to people anymore.”

Michael nods. “Or as often. I feel the same, you know,” he says, nudging Allen’s shoulder with his own. "Sometimes I even wish shepherding was a two-person job, and you could come along with me."

It's relieving, Allen notes, to discover that you're not alone. It feels like ages since they first met, but despite the intermittent loneliness, he doesn't regret a second of it. He decides it's safe to tell Michael as much.

Michael, for his part, agrees wholeheartedly.

* * *

_The Sheep_

Allen watches from the hill as Michael leads the sheep back into town. The sheep mill about Michael with a lazy familiarity as he corals them into their pen. Michael directs them with such confidence and ease that it’s easy to see that he clearly knows what he’s doing in spite of his youth.

Even at fourteen, Allen never would have taken such a job unless, perhaps, he was desperate for the work.

Seeing Michael, though, it’s difficult to tell if he’s doing this because he has to or because he can or even because he _wants_ to.

For all that Allen wants to be able to give Michael something, Allen doesn’t really know if he has anything to offer him. Instinct yells at him and tells him that Michael must be protected, but Michael seems to have covered all of his bases pretty thoroughly. He’s strangely self-sufficient in the kind of way that pretty much means that all Allen can do is stick around and offer his support if things somehow go wrong.

Maybe that’s enough.

They’re two odd people on the outskirts of society, but at least they’re there together. Really, what more can he ask for?


End file.
